Moon Calling
by gettinyinggywithit
Summary: In his dreams, a girl has appeared. — Gintoki x Tsukuyo, dreamscape; spoilers for Yoshiwara in Flames Red Spider arc


**Note:** It is my birthday today, so I wanted to give a little gift: sappy, disjointed Gintsu writing. I hope you enjoyed it. More Red Spider arc stuff to come, along with some older bits. Now off to gorge myself on _Hủ tiếu_.

**Note 2:** Originally posted on my tumblr.

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**Moon Calling** | In his dreams, a girl has appeared. — Gintoki x Tsukuyo, dreamscape; spoilers for Yoshiwara in Flames + Red Spider arc

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In his dreams, a girl has appeared. She stands barefoot in a sunset yukata, four feet tall, eyes hidden by ash blond fringe.

The memory unfolds; a curtain draws upward and reveals the scene. Bodies everywhere, some in pieces, some in piles. Blood so thick it's black. Crows flapping their wings and barking down at him. A bright, bright sun, bathing everything in his sight white. But, there: Teacher Shoyo is approaching. Gintoki remembers this, the weight of his sword in his child's hands, how he couldn't quite make out the details of his teacher's face.

_I came because —_ Gintoki knows what Teacher is going to say, about demons eating corpses, how he had smiled because he discovered the demon was just a fluffy-haired boy in a ratty robe, clutching a rusty sword and chomping away at a stale onigiri. _If you wish to learn to use that sword — _

Teacher's retreating back, narrow but unspeakably strong; even the child Gintoki can feel it. He says, _From now on, you will swing that sword not to cut down your enemies —_

The girl still stands by, not watching or seeming to acknowledge them, but Gintoki is wary of her there. She stays in her place in the corner of his vision; no matter how he tries to look directly at her, he cannot focus on her figure.

Teacher is still speaking: _Not to cut away your weaknesses and protect yourself — _

A slight breeze rustles her hair and bats against her small sharp chin.

_But to protect your very soul._

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The memories take him. One, two, three — first, a meal shared with Zura, miso for breakfast and a fried fish they'd caught themselves; two, an afternoon at Odd Jobs, Kagura asleep on the couch, Shinpachi nodding his head to an Otsu album; three, the feeling of hot blood oozing into his eyebrows from a head wound, which one?

The girl lingers. She sits on the edge of Teacher Shoyo's classroom, her back to him, her face to the sun. It is a sunny day, but not so bright as the one when Teacher found him; he can actually see the blue of the sky. Gintoki looks around at all the little boys sitting cross-legged at their desks, but no one seems to pay attention. He feels himself immensely distracted: she is still wearing that orange yukata, but now he sees her plum-colored obi belt, wrapped poorly around her middle because she must have tied it herself, and her hands are just so small.

_Gintoki,_ Teacher calls his name, asks him to read something out loud. Twenty big eyes round on him, but he's not sure where he's supposed to read. Takasugi, a few seats over, rolls his eyes. Zura coughs, _page ten_, and tips his notebook in Gintoki's direction to help him find the place. But first — he flicks his eyes back to the doorway. She pays them no mind, just swings her little feet above the green, green grass.

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Many years — hours? — later.

_Will you come with me, Gintoki?_ There is a characteristic laugh in Sakamoto's voice, as if he already knows the answer to this question.

Gintoki doesn't want to answer it anyway; he wants to doze against the roof on this balmy summer evening. They are veterans of a lost war, but they have lost many other things. Teacher. Takasugi's eye. So many things have ruptured, split, bled. He's tired of blood and adventure and purpose; he just wants to take it easy for a while. He dares to open his eyes; above, the moon is heavy, mellow, surrounded by a court of stars but still lonely. She seems like she wants to say something, but Gintoki can't hear her voice.

_Say, Sakamoto,_ he begins, his voice just above a breath. _Have you seen a girl around?_

Another laugh, a bit smug, very Sakamoto. _O-ho-ho, Kintoki, looking for a good time? _

_Idiot_, Gintoki spits. _Nevermind. _He closes his eyes again.

A moment passes, then the other man says: _Have you seen a girl?_ He sounds quite serious this time.

He opens his eyes, blinks slowly. He sees her perfectly in profile: she is perched on the edge of the roof with knees drawn up as if to leap into action; she wears moonlight like a cape and kunai twisted into her fair hair. Once, Gintoki saw a scar on her left cheek, running all the way down to her jaw. Tonight if he squinted he might see it again, but he's not sure he should; it feels oddly intrusive.

_No_, Gintoki finally answers.

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She is in the graveyard with him when Otose finds him in the snow. Gintoki leans against Otose's late husband's tombstone, weak, thin, paler than ever before. Now she is so close he could reach out and touch her; her hand is hanging just in his peripheral vision. He wishes he had the energy to look up, to demand her name, to demand why she is following him, is she a ghost? She is wearing white again today.

_Granny_, he calls out. He grimaces a little to remember his own voice, so dry. _Can I eat —_

The old woman in the brown kimono turns around, blinks at him. He knows her answer by heart: _These are for my late husband, you have to ask him._

_Dead men don't speak,_ he says quietly.

He crawls toward the hot, steaming dumplings on hands and knees. He tells himself he doesn't feel anything but gratitude in this moment. He makes a promise: _I will watch over you_.

The girl flinches, as though she's heard his voice. He's puzzled, wonders why he suddenly asks, _Where's her pipe?_

Otose-ba-chan blinks but doesn't answer.

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There is sunset, the river. Shades of lilac, gold, pale peaches. It would be poetic if it weren't for the space pirates lying dead and wounded around them. Every muscle in Gintoki's body hurts. It's the first of many rescues to come; a rhythm in Gintoki's life that is starting, a new cycle of throwing his body and sword in front of another. _I had thought not to take up such a load again in my life_, he'd told Zura only hours before.

Kagura holds both hands out, gives him her best "little girl" impression: _Carry me!_ She cries. Next to her, Shinpachi agrees, _We are so woozy._ They are in cahoots against him.

He barks, infuriated, temples pounding: _Come on, knock it off already! You want me to carry you, I'll carry you! Your wish is my command!_

That laughter that breaks upon his shoulders is bright, healthy, the sounds of children with absolute confidence in their safety. It strikes him how rare a sound that is. He tightens his hold around Kagura with his right arm, heaves Shinpachi higher up on his back. Zura's chuckles too float down to him from somewhere unseen, smug bastard.

_Hey, who is that?_ Kagura suddenly asks, pointing forward.

Gintoki squints his eyes; against the setting sun, there is the faintest silhouette of a woman in a dark kimono, and just over her head, he sees the moon rising.

_K-kagura, you can see her?_

She and Shinpachi exchange looks. _Gin-san?_

This time, he calls out to her: _Oy, oy, you —_

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He does not know this place: a dark room, but high-pealing laughter just on the other side of the wall. Outside, it is nighttime, and red and gold lights burn brightly.

A door slides open, an older female voice says, _Thank you for bringing her all the way here_; after her, a man enters, bowed and wringing his hands. Behind both of them, a small child enters the room. She is wearing an orange yukata, purple obi. In the gloom, he can't make out her face, but there is a slick coldness that enters his belly as he watches the adults talk in low voices. The girl stands by, silent, her eyes on the floor. He wants her to say something, anything, to stop what is happening to her — but then the man turns around, faces her for the briefest minute, and marches out of the room without looking back.

The older woman, he sees now, is wearing a rich silk kimono, her hair tied back in a traditional style. She is smoking a pipe, and the only thing he can see clearly in her face is her red, red lips. _Welcome to your new home_, she says to the girl. _Welcome to Yoshiwara._

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The scenes skip by, a montage from a movie, but it is more devastating, less comical. The images around him swirl, blur, and finally settle.

The girl beaten and punished; shoved forcefully back into the room, someone shouting at her for being _impolite_, _lazy_, or _sullen_. The door slams shut. She lays on the floor where she has been dropped like a doll forgotten on a shelf. She is not wearing that yukata dipped in sunlight anymore; it has been replaced with a beige, run-of-the-mill work outfit that doesn't suit her.

On her knees before a man wrapped in bandages, a knife in her small white hand, that same little-girl hand that so poorly tied her obi. Now it is tipped toward her face, and Gintoki jerks forward, tries to call out, to stop her, he knows what is coming, how?

Many hours later, the man in bandages returns: _Well?_ She looks up, and Gintoki sees a bright smile, blood in her teeth.

There is the night bathed in fire. He has heard this story before, he's sure of it; but now he stands paralyzed on the streets of Yoshiwara, watching flames lick their way up beautiful wooden buildings, how they devour fabrics and paper screen windows, how they snap open roofs with powerful fingers. The fire takes all — it gobbles up shouts of panic, it inhales the footsteps of people running in all directions, it even tries to swallow her scream.

_Master — _

He can't hear it, but he can feel it; a scar across the night sky, a tear in the veil.

The girl falls to her knees at the edge of the fire, wind whipping her hair up around her face. If she weren't visibly shaking, Gintoki would think that her spirit had simply evaporated into the heat. But no — this girl's soul is sharp as a knife, and this fire is only part of her forging.

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Yes, a forging: she has become something new on the other side of the fire.

The girl is now a woman who stands at the edges of rooftops, just as she did in his memory with Sakamoto. She has shed the white robes of her teenage years and now wears black kimono with autumn leaves scattered at the hem. He pads along behind her on the streets, watches smoke rise from her pipe and obscure her face.

One night, she chases down a prostitute who has escaped. The woman's clothing is heavy, her shoes poorly made for running, and her obi unravels as she races down the steps. Gintoki watches her corner this woman, who is sobbing, begging forgiveness of the Guardian —

She hands the prostitute a knife. He strains his ears to listen: she is saying something to the woman, something that makes more tears flood her eyes. Around them, more women step out of the shadows, all wearing brightly colored kimono in many layers, but they also all have dark masks covering the lower halves of their faces. They are a powerful presence, assembling silently as they do. The woman looks around at them, but her fear seems to have been replaced by something else, conviction?

A scene is replaying: she looks down at the knife, tilts it toward her face.

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He loses his feet underneath him; time slips, the landscape shifts. Gintoki is panting, finds himself hanging off the edge of a cliff. When he opens his eyes, Kagura is hefted underneath his arm, unconscious; Shinpachi is clutching at his other hand; and holding onto Shinpachi is, is —

Gintoki stares up, up at this woman always out of sight. He wants to reach out and brush the fringe from her eyes; he's sure he knows this face, knows what he will find there. He sees the moon in the tilt of her neck, something sombre but warm in that little chin.

_Tell me,_ he says quietly. _Please. _

At the sound of his voice, she turns —

They are back-to-back, surrounded on all sides. Blood leaks down his leg and from his elbow; one eye is closing because the sweat stings. Behind him, she is poised, coiled, ready to attack. She pants harshly, lacking breath. He realizes with a start that he can hear her. She speaks to him, finally, but it is the voice of a woman, not a child: P_lease go, I beg you. I wish to remain your equal. _

He cannot abide. _My equal? You have seen me eat amongst corpses, I have seen you scar your own face_. Gintoki shoves her out of the way of another blow. He pictures the little girl with the sloppy obi, she needs to flee, she needs to live, even if she has a smoking habit now, even if she has a scar, or two, or twenty —

Gintoki feels the pain of a knife in his wrist. He's choking on water; no, blood? Surely there is blood too. A man's cruel voice: _You must be the one who ruined the moon. _

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_I, ruin the moon? You can never ruin the moon; you just admire it._

Images compound, faster than he has time to see them. Her limbs splayed out on a web like a butterfly. A deep, intimate threat in the too-warm air: _I will flay the skin off you, and you will be like me, unrecognizable_. Gintoki's fists trembling at his sides, the wooden sword biting into his skin. The weight of her body in his arms. The man dancing on threads all around the dark, dark room. The smell of Yoshiwara burning.

She says to him in that small wet voice: _Look at yourself, I told you to run —_ She is sad, and it _hurts_, but he cannot hear this now. He doesn't have time for these words, not after everything that has happened.

_Don't be such a stranger. _

For a while, there is darkness.

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_Could I have had a different life? _

Gintoki turns toward the sound of the woman's voice; her voice is deeper than he might have imagined. She is standing in a decadent kimono, her silhouette against the moon; her neck, long and white, is a wonder.

The colors crystallize, an impression becomes a distinct memory. In that instant, he can see her soul, round, full, luminescent. It is clean, it is blameless, it is whole.

He feels his lips responding, _There is no need to feel shame. _

Suddenly, finally, and it brings such relief that tears spring to Gintoki's eyes, she turns. He sees her face. He knows her name in an instant.

_I am so happy I met you._

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_Fin_.

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Thank you.


End file.
